In the Years Beyond
by WildflowerWhisper
Summary: Two years have passed since the fall of Sauron. In the time of reforging, Rohan's queen lies in Dol Amroth. But the road to happy-ever-after will be both long and treacherous. Semi-sequel to Ever and Ever.
1. Preface: Nothing

Until the story gains momentum, updates will probably be short (sorry!). Warning: this is not a true sequel to Ever and Ever. The story will center around Eomer and Lothiriel...but Calahdra will play a major role, I promise.  
P.S. I hope this preface doesn't break too many hearts.  
-Whisper

A pair of lace curtains tear back and forth as the gale strikes. The tenant of the room in which the curtains are adorned wakes at once... but she does not move. For just a moment, as she inhales, she can feel a warm back pressed against her own. Phantom muscles tense and relax next to her as thunder rolls throughout the night. A memory flickers in her consciousness, but a gust of wind tamps it out much like the candle beside her bed. The flames trigger another memory, but this too is stomped out. Suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia and hidden scars, she turns to face whatever demon lays next to her. But as she exhales, the feeling is gone, and she is alone.

The woman stands, swiftly pulling a blanket about herself. She strides to the open window, which still clangs and swings back and forth in the onset of the storm. As she reaches for the window pane, a chill seizes her. She looks back to her bed, convinced once more that she is not alone. But she is. She is as alone as she has been for two years.

Already rain has drenched her hair and face. With sudden resolve, she pulls open the tall windows and steps out onto a balcony. Although besieged by wind and water, she stands firm and wills herself to fade away into the storm.

"_To drown,"_ she whispers, repeating these heavy words as she has for days.

She remembers the letter, the way its words struck her, and the way that mere parchment became so heavy.

_To my dearest-_

My last letter was too short and too soon, I fear. Much has occurred between then and now that could not be explained in as few words as my last correspondence.

To put it plainly, my father has decided to make the voyage to Valinor. I fear that there is little time before I will be at last forced to marry. By my count, I have six more months of delay before I will have no other option.

I have given this much thought; perhaps too much thought. Though many know somewhat of what lies between us, too few know the truth. There are no more loopholes, my love. There will be no more unexplained trips to Minas Tirith so that I can find some reprieve from the pressures of society.

I fear that the distance and time that lies between us has grown too great, my dear. At our parting, I promised you that immortality would bring with it a gentler passing of time. But the age of the immortals has passed, and the age of men has brought with it bitter curse for those whose time is ending. We too feel the brittleness of old age, and we too feel the change of flesh and feeling as the seasons change. Great tidings were set in motion at the close of the War, and now, as elves must sail _away and the lost generation leaves it wound behind, we are bearing the true price of our victory._

Perhaps love is as dangerous as the sea. Was that not the choice we were faced before our betrothal? For me to sail, or to spend what little time your life would allow in love and in passion? In my mind, both are mediums in which to drown, and it seems that we will do just that.

I understand that your task has been set to protect Eomer King in Dol Amroth until he sees fit to leave. I could not ask you to part him, at his leave or otherwise. Dark tides still ebb, my love. I fear that Eomer may need your protection now more than ever.

My work, too, is not yet done. Every month a new family empties its lodgings in Mirkwood and comes to settle in Ithilien. There is much growing to be done, and the scouts are young and need much training. I still return to Mirkwood every few fortnights or so, and it is during these visits that eligible bachelorettes are paraded around me like cattle. My hands are tied, my love, and my heart is broken.

No matter what may transpire, I wish you all the happiness that I can. I would never forsake you, and no forced marriage will ever sever my ties to you. If at any moment I might be able to seek asylum in Gondor, I will find you. I promise you this: I love you yet more than anything and everything in this world and the next.  
-Yours.

The woman sobs as the words echo throughout her head in his crystalline voice. Her tears are quiet, though, and they melt away into the raindrops coursing down her face.

Some time passes, and she grows immune to the cold and the drenching. Staid, she stands alone, watching the east as if it holds all the answers.

A pair of arms reaches out from behind her and gathers her middle. She recognizes the scent, and the way the hands hold her. She has grown so habituated to this touch, this gesture.

"Calahdra," the man whispers, "Come inside. Come to bed,"

The woman turns, and sheepishly returns inside as he asked.

"What were you thinking, standing out there like that? You'll catch cold and you'll be no use at all,"

It takes the woman a moment to adjust to this guttural language. For what seems like hours, she has been thinking solely in Sindarin.

"It felt nice," she tells him, and he gives her a furtive glance before settling beside her. He is quiet as he surveys her angled face, the shadows under her eyes. Her damp hair clings to her chin at sharp angles. No matter how many times he tries to convince himself otherwise, she is not the beauty he had once seduced. She is haunted, now, and the ethereal grace he had so yearned for is now hidden under pallid skin and scars.

He shakes himself of this thought. She is his, and that is all that matters. He came to her chambers after he dreamed of what they had once done, and he will not leave until he has taken from her what he wants.

"Come," he says, taking her jaw into his hand. "Let us make love,"

She looks up into his eyes, and for a moment she thinks as an elf would. "_He is so young, and so human. He thinks that sex is a cure, an antidote. But it is not. It is nothing,"_

But she says none of this aloud, and she never has. Instead, she nods. "Yes, Eldric,"

And so he does, mechanically acting out the process until he selfishly achieves his own fulfillment. And, as always, the woman fakes her own climax, all the while fighting back the bile and guilt in her throat.

When it is over, the man leans over her and pushes her hair from her eyes. "Do you love me?" he asks.

For a moment, she is tempted to tell him the truth. She is tempted to tell him that she never did...that she used him then like he uses her now. "_You were my pet," _she would say "_And I led you about thinking you would bring me pleasure. But you did not...you could not. Instead, you brought me only pain. And now... now you are all that I have. All that is left in my life is a leash and collar,"_

She says nothing. She tells him "Yes, I love you,", but it means nothing. The words are empty, and so too is she.


	2. Chapter 1: Catharsis

_Again and again, her trembling fingers would not be able to keep a grip on his. Cold hands would fall back against a marble slate, and her sobs would begin anew as she struggled to pick them back up again._

Her father would come forward, and with a heavy sigh he would close his son's eyelids. A moment or so would pass in which the world was draped in utter silence, and then Lothíriel would be lead away down some bleak corridor. When she had travelled an immeasurable distance, she would be pushed through a doorway and into a room that held her brother's corpse as it had been when she had first seen it.

In this dream, she relived that violent grief time and time again.

I woke with a start, groaning aloud as sun stroke my eyes. It was late, much too late. Sluggish and troubled yet by my dark nightmare, I dressed in my usual grey shift dress. As soon as my hair was braided and pinned up, I snatched the handful of tomes and scrolls I had been studying the night before and exited my bedroom.

I took the quietest halls and passageways I knew of to reach the library in time for my studies. I was in little mood for chatter, and not in any mood at all for condolences. I knew also that I had a good chance of having my knuckles rapped for every minute I was late.

By some miracle, Minluzîr was late as well. I set at once to arranging my tomes about me in a way that would appear studious and labored, but as I did so, I found myself listening in on a unforeseen conversation.

"What time are they to arrive, my lord?"

That was Arnubên, my father's Captain.

"Sometime this evening, I believe. His company was to have spent the night in Pelargir,"

"They have made good time, then. And have met no trouble,"

My father laughed, and as the noise grew louder I could tell that he was coming nearer.

"It is impossible to travel any land and not find trouble in these times, Arnubên,"

My father then rounded the nearest bookshelf, and I straightened myself as my eyes met his.

"Well met, daughter. How are you this morning?"

"Fair, thank you," I said, tipping my head to the Captain as I spoke. He smiled in return.

"Minluzîr is not yet here?"

I shook my head, nervously tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My father stood a good distance from me, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that there were some tidings he wished to share with me. There too was the awkward stillness that had enveloped us both ever since my brother's passing.

"I will have you excused from this morning's studies, Lothiriel. Walk with me,"

I did as he bade, and we walked in silence from the Library. After bidding Arnubên a good day, my father led me out into the gardens.

I sighed as the sun touched my face. Dol Amroth had been struck with fierce storms in the last several nights; great gales carried in by the sea. Today, the sky was clear and the air was crisp.

"Have your studies been going well, Lothiriel?" My father asked, turning down a path that led to his favorite row of daffodils.

"They have. I have been studying the history of Harad lately, and I find it quite interesting,"

At the mention of Harad, my father's fingertips went to the long scar across his collarbone.

"That is good,"

A sharp ferocity had entered his gaze, and his voice grew distant. I was no stranger to this mood of my father's, for it was one that he exhibited whenever talk of war triggered some memory of his.

For a moment, we carried on in a very uncomfortable silence. When at last we reached my father's favorite flower bed, we settled on a nearby bench.  
"We will soon be joined by King Eomer of Rohan, my dear. He has come to arrange new trade agreements with Dol Amroth, and he should be here for some time,"

The news was not shocking to me, nor even surprising. We had had many guests from distnat lands as of late, for Middle Earth had changed in the way that had politicians and tradesmen squirming. Borders had been redrawn, trade agreements had withered as goods were destroyed. Those that had been enemies had been thrown into neutrality out of necessity, and allies were now strained to reforge their brotherly bonds. Such was the nature of our time.

My father turned enough to catch my eye, and suddenly I was concerned.

"You are nineteen, Lothiriel. If it had not been for the War, you would have been married years ago,"

I understood, then. It was me that was to be the trade agreement.

All at once I felt nauseous. A fell warmth spread to my legs and stomach, and my head throbbed.

I could not leave this life I knew.

"You don't mean... you don't mean to...," I stammered. My father took my hands, and upon noticing the way that they shook, he pulled me closer to him.

"Be strong, daughter. Nothing is set in stone, no arrangements have been already made. And I would not throw you to this man before knowing more of him myself. But if some bond forms between you, then yes...you are to become his wife,"

I could not help it. I cried. And I ran.

I ran far, and I ran fast. I passed the gates of the palace grounds and I ran through the streets of the city at a break-neck speed. Past vendors and apartments. Through the ghettos and the oldest parts of the city.

Guards and peddlers alike called out to me to stop, but none recognized me.

I ran because I could think of nothing else that felt at all appropriate to do.

It was not until I found myself at the docks that I stopped.

Bright sails fluttered high above the ships moored in the bay. Sun glanced off of the crystalline waves, and the calls of gulls, fishermen, and mariners all sounded out between the long wooden ramps and the moorings. The sight cleared my head, and breathing in the rich, salt-tinted air did me eve better.

This was my home. This was Dol Amroth. I had never left home, never been more than two hours from this very spot.

Rohan, a land I had seen only in maps and the pictures I had painted in my head, was so far away.

^^^

I was found rather quickly by a pair of guards.

"My lady," one said, taking me carefully by the shoulders. "We are to take you back to the Palace,"

I shrugged his hand away in spite, but followed the men through the streets as asked.

My father waited at the gates, his back erect and hands behind his back. Ashamed, I lowered my gaze.

I knew what was to come; I was to be humiliated before the guards now assembled on the lawn.

"Look at me," he said, and I looked up.

"You have been told not to leave the palace grounds without an escort. You disobeyed me, Lothiriel."

At once, he took me by the shoulder and spun me about. The cold sting of his riding crop fell onto the back of my legs twice before he twisted me around again.

"You are a young woman, Lothiriel," he told me, "You are expected to behave as such,"

I could understand clearly what he meant by that. I was to be married off whether I protested or not.

Mortified and in a good bit of pain, I limped to my bedchambers in silence.

^^^

My brother found me in my rooms sometime later.

"Leave me be, Amrothos," I said, slumped in the armchair facing the one window I had. It over looked the cityscape and the market beyond the palace walls, and the sea beyond that.

"I came to bring you tea," he said, rounding my bed and coming to stand by me. I felt him look down at me, and I turned away.

"Oh, don't act so sullen. It's not like father hasn't taken his crop to you before. We've all felt it,"

"I hate it," I murmured, aware of the fact that I sounded like petulant child.

Amrothos knelt beside me and put his hand on the back of my head. I turned around to meet his eyes.

"Father loves you, sullen and all,"

I doubted it. From my own reading and the court gossip I'd overheard, royalty across the world and ages all bent love into some wicked, empty thing. Power drowned out true love, and loyalty was the only currency worth any value in a family trapped by political bonds.

My impending marriage to a Horse-lord was proof of that. So too was my own parent's marriage; a marriage that had entered into chaos before ending in tragedy.

Amrothos left soon after, and my tea, left on the table nearby, went untouched. I spent the remainder of the day and well into the night brooding, ignoring the calls and pleas of my handmaid as she attempted to get me into bed. Everything around me felt heavy and dark, like the moments after one wakes from a nightmere.

Was I acting childlike? Yes. Could I have been finding some worthwhile activity to serve as a catharsis for my frustration? Certainly. But a voice in my head told me that I would find only trouble.

Plus, my husband-to-be was to arrive that evening. Locked in my bedroom, I was sure to avoid him and his merry gang of Knights. I was fully prepared to spend the entirety of my evening imagining him as some hulking monstrosity that spoke in halting Westron and guttural barking noises, and so I did. I imagined this faceless character in all manner of compromising situations that would have become the laughingstock of Dol Amroth. I'll admit that once or twice I even imagined him dead. It was good fun, dreaming up such preposterous things in my own head, and it did seem to ease my own anxiety.

Before I at last succumbed to sleep, I had a disturbing thought.

I was certainly over-reacting, for that was the job of any young woman. But what if I did come to like him? What if I grew to even love him? Would I hate myself for dreaming up these things twenty years from now, when we created children and a life of our own?

I laughed away the thought aloud, convinced that my imagination had at last run away from me.  
But part of me was not so sure. Part of me longed to meet this man. Part of me longed to love him... if a King and a Princess bound by a marriage of necessity could indeed love.

"Tomorrow," I said into the dark, "I will not be such a coward,"

Chapter End Notes:

Minluzîr: Sky-friend.  
Arnubên: King-servant.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but Adûnaic and Sindarin are the langauges of choice for those of Dol Amroth. The above names are the former.


	3. Chapter 2: Irony

A single whistle sounds out from the road ahead, and Calahdra presses her steed forward. Behind her rides King Eomer of Rohan, hidden beneath a cloak of cool gray.

Despite his initial grumblings, he now carries on in silence, surrounded by a vanguard of seasoned riders. Dressed in neutral tones upon a plain gelding, he looks nothing like the King he is.

Something pricks at Calahdra's consciousness, and she raises her hand for the halt. After dismounting, she stretches the same hand forward, reaching out into the shadowy places of the forest. She senses them here and there; duets and trios of hidden orcs. But whether they are hiding in fear or preparing to strike, Calahdra cannot tell.

Another whistle sounds out from ahead, but Calahdra notices that the cadence is too quick, too sharp. Though it is not the warning note, Calahdra knows better.

Calahdra walks backwards, mounts, and pulls her own gelding about to face her King.

"This way is not safe. Some terror awaits you here,"

Eomer shakes his head, and for a moment his hood slips away. Calahdra reaches to pull it back up.

"I do not doubt you, but there is no other way. All other roads are flooded,"

"You would rather risk our deaths than be late?" she hisses, now sensing the hidden orcs gather themselves out of the gloom.

"This voyage holds more significance than any other we have taken. Calahdra, you know the import of our mission,"

Calahdra inhales, and her nostrils flare as she catches Eomer roll his eyes.

"We've been in tighter spots before," he adds, gathering his reigns in a gloved hand. "Let them come,"

Calahdra turns and waves forward a set of archers. As they ready their bows, she turns back to Eomer.

"Your orders, my liege?" she asks sarcastically. A flash of annoyance passes over Eomer's face before he shakes his head. Experience tells Calahdra that this dismissal signals his approval.

The Shieldmaiden whistles once, then twice once more. She expects a return call, but instead comes a blood-curdling scream cut short by the hiss of a falling ax.

Eomer yells the attack orders, and at once the vanguard advances. The orcs appear from every direction. Arrows fly from both parties, but it is Rohan's arrows that more often meet their mark.

Calahdra rides forward with Eomer, both of whom fight with blades high. Their swords fall here and there, though for the most part the protective shell of riders keep them from seeing much of the battle. These orcs are panicked and starved. Many are young and inexperienced, fighting with dull, discarded weapons.

Before long, there are few left to fight. Only four remain, and these appear to be females, left hidden behind fallen trees and damp boulders. They mass together in a single clump.

Eomer dismounts and nears them, casting his eyes from their naked bodies. Though skeletal in their poverty, there is still some fire left in their dark eyes. Calahdra stays close, her hand biting into the hilt of her sword.

Eomer is unafraid, however. While orc males are crafty and guided by some ill-intent, the females were often submissive and left dull by years of abuse.

As he lays his palms out to them, hoping to prove his good intent, the she-orcs gather closer to each other, but they do not run. Eomer gathers up some of the Black Speech he has learned over the last year.

He tells them his name and his place of origin, and asks them what they are to do. Though he does not expect a reply, one she-orc steps forward from the others.

Calahdra listens hard, but the she-orc is quiet. She speaks to Eomer for sometime in a scrambled combination of both the Black Speech and Westron. When she is finished, Eomer nods and stands, waving Calahdra forward.

"This is Tem. She says that her sisters and herself were concubines to the males we have slaughtered and that she is glad to see them dead,"

Calahdra meets Tem's eyes and sees that she is not lying.

"They do not know where they are or where they are to go,"

Calahdra meets his eyes and sees his decision there. It is an order he has made many times throughout his travels, and it grows no easier for the young King.

Calahdra waves forward two riders while Eomer kneels before the she-orcs. He bows his head as he pulls his blade from its sheath. The she-orcs do nothing; having been threatened with death all their lives, they are almost grateful to receive it at last.

"Forgive me," he says to them, and at once four blades are thrust forward.

The bodies are soon buried and burnt. The single fallen scout is wrapped in a black cloth and draped over the haunches of his horse -he will soon be buried by the sea. No trace of the massacre is left. The world will go on, and only the hearts of the riders will live to feel the weight of their sins.

It does not comfort any of them that they have offered a more merciful death than any other riding party. At the hands of others, the males would have been tortured and set afire while the she-orcs were raped and beaten. Worse even, the entire band could have been sold into slavery and shipped to some dark, unforgiving place. There was comfort only in death for those races who had collectively sinned against the 'free peoples' of Middle Earth. And though the irony -that the sinners were enslaved while the crusaders against oppression tied their bonds- was well noted by many nobles, there was little to be done when life carried such constant reminders of the dark days.

And so, silent and bloodstained, the Knights of Rohan ride forward. Soon, they will all bathe and dine like Kings in the seaside palace of Dol Amroth.


	4. Chapter 3: Symbolic

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Ahah! A longer chapter for my dears.  
A reminder: I own none of Tolkien's work. It his and his alone.

* * *

At my father's side I sat until at last the herald announced the King's arrival.

"All rise for his majesty, King Eomer of Rohan,"

Through the mighty double doors to the throne room walked a tall man cloaked in dark leather and a cloak of green velvet. Upon his head was a single ringlet of silver and gold. There was a dark flame in his eye, and some noble purpose seemed to have been indelibly etched into his brow.

Though I looked him over multiple times, his eyes never once turned my way. Instead, he looked straight to my father, even when he at last stopped before my father's throne.

My father stood before him and clasped arms with him, murmuring a few words of welcome. At once, a chair was brought out for the King so that he might sit before the dais.

Still, his eyes remained fixed upon my father. I began to twitch in an irksome way. Unless it was some custom of Rohan not to look a woman in the eye, Eomer was not proving himself at all to me.

"It is been sometime since last we fought or feasted together, Eomer," my father said.

Eomer smiled politely. "Two years, my lord. Yet it passes like a blink of the eye,"

My father laughed, but Eomer grew quiet… almost nervous.

"My lord, I have a request of you that I hope you will not be offended by," Eomer said as he was seated.

"Go on," my father said, wordlessly accepting a goblet of mead passed to him by a servant.

"With me always is a trusted servant of mine; a protector of sorts. Though I trust I have nothing to fear in your halls, I would like it very much if my friend might join us,"

"Why would I not allow such a thing?" my father asked. As I studied Eomer's face, I saw a strange sort of fear there, as if this common request quite often backfired. He hesitated, and at last looked at me for only a mere second before turning back and nodding to the herald.

"Presenting Calahdra Léoma, Shieldmaiden of Rohan,"

Whispers at once cloaked the hall. I looked to my father for reassurance as the doors opened once more. On his lips was a small, knowing smile.

The woman -20 to 25 summers old by my mark- now striding towards the dais had in her eyes the same glow that had been in Eomer's, though it was masked by either sorrow or secrecy –I could not tell which. Her hair was cut half way between her chin and shoulders, much like a man's. And she wore men's garb as well; a leather jerkin over a fine silk top and tan leggings.

About her waist laid all number of daggers and knives, including a single curved sword that lay in a crystalline sheath at her left hip.

She stopped just beside Eomer and bowed solemnly to my father. He laughed as he rose, and to my shock, as well as everyone else's, he clasped arms with her.

"Welcome, my dear girl. I was sure that you would have retired after all that you had been through. Was a life of peace too boring a prospect?"

Though her lips turned up, the woman's eyes did not smile. "To be a Shieldmaiden is a life sentence, my lord Imrahil,"

"Very well, very well," my father said. As he sat, the woman turned to me and bowed her head.

"You must be Lothiriel, my lady. It is my pleasure to meet you,"

Her voice, measured and morose as it was, entranced me. I warmed to her at once, and desperately hoped that Eomer would learn manners from wherever it was that she had.

I nodded to her with a polite smile, and then looked out over the crowds gathering in pockets about the hall.

Eomer and my father began to talk. "I trust your travel here was safe?"

The Shieldmaiden and king shared a brief look, but Eomer grinned amiably. " 'Twas indeed a manageable trip, sir," he replied. But Calahdra did not look so sage.  
I studied this warrior. She stood alarmingly straight just behind Eomer's chair, her hands clasped before her. Every few seconds, her eyes would flit to and fro' as if expecting foul play; for the most part, however, she was utterly still. I wondered what her story was -where she come from and people she had met. I imagined the start to the book that would tell the tales of her life; it would be a sad, simple sentence, but it would capture her fierce grace nonetheless.

After twenty minutes or so, my father stood. "Lothiriel, meet us in the parlor for luncheon by way of the gallery. I would like our guest to see some of your mother's work,"

I nodded silently and turned to leave. A touch on my shoulder stopped me.

"Would you care if I joined you?"

It was the Shieldmaiden, and there was genuine curiosity in her eyes. "I would very much like to see more of the palace," she turned to my father, "if that would be agreeable with you, my lord,"

My father caught my eye and nodded once, but there was a warning in the way he carried out the gesture –as if saying "you are to be on your best behavior,"

I ignored the grating annoyance in my heart and took the woman's waiting arm. As soon as we exited into a hallway, the woman removed her arm from mine. I gave her a questioning glance.

"I apologize, my lady, but I have little tolerance for the niceties of court outside of their time and place,"

I took this in, and I thought I understood her a little better. Somehow, the life of the court had wronged her, and so she had taken up a sword like some men and women take up the words of the Gods. Upon this realization, I found that I admired her far more than I might have ever thought to have liked a woman dressed and armed like a man.

I tried then to form my thoughts into some sort of inquiry that wouldn't be considered rude. "How then can you stand to spend your life beside a King?"

The woman laughed, but like before the smile never touched her eyes. "I manage myself quite well,"

_"Cryptic…,"_ I thought, now turning to my next plan of attack. "Do you spend much time at court at all in Rohan?"

She looked over at me, now giving me a flat stare. "There is little about me that you will find at all interesting, my lady. What secrets I have are secrets of the state and of Middle Earth,"

I sighed a little angrily. "Well, if you have no want of talk then why did you accompany me?"

The woman spoke in thick sarcasm. "To survey the fine architecture of the palace, my lady,"

I watched her eyes –which were flitting back and forth like little fireflies as they had before- for a few seconds before realizing what her true purpose was.

"You are memorizing the layout of the palace in case you have need of escape,"

She looked again to me, amusement clear in her pale skin. "You are bright, my dear. Are there no positions similar to 'Shieldmaiden' in Dol Amroth?"

I huffed. "Women here are expected to become acolytes or wives. We would never dare lift a blade,"

I felt her cool eyes on me for a while more. "I will train you in swordplay, then. Spearmanship at the very least,"

I spun about in my tracks. "My father would let you do no such thing,"

"If you are to travel back to Rohan with us and live there as our Queen, then he better," she said.

I blanched and turned from her gaze. It was true then that my marriage to Eomer was as certain as rain.

Calahdra must have noticed my distress, for she drew closer to me and laid a hand on my arm.

"He is a good man, Lothiriel, and we are a good people. Do not fear this future,"

I swallowed, but my throat felt thick and coarse. "I do not know him. We have not shared a single word,"

Calahdra paused to run a gloved hand over a tapestry depicting our harbors. "War was dulled many tongues and many minds. Not even a King can claim to have been unaffected by its evils,"

Her eyes carried the same grim memories that my father's often did, and I watched as a thousand battles crossed paths in her mind.

"Did you see much of war?"

She looked to me and smiled, and now at last the edges of her eyes turned up. The effect was sinister, sardonic. "Too much,"

I did not press her further, and instead we carried on in silence until at last we reached the gallery. Inside laid many of my mother's portraits and landscapes, all of which had been framed and hung shortly after her death. Painting had been her outlet, it seemed, and in times of her mania (which became increasingly frequent towards the end), she would lock herself away for hours simply to paint.

Much of late work was so unintelligible and frantic that my father had it burned before anyone could think poorly of it. But what remained was poignancy, brilliant, and almost suffocating in its vibrancy. Somehow, the Lady Ressil managed to capture the glory of even the simplest of things. A ray of light became an allegory for a person's entire demeanor; a drop of dew shone like lone diamond amongst fields of green grass; every ship's sail flew high with the radiance of a thousand blended hues.

While many saw her genius, I saw only the reminders of her neglect.

And perhaps Calahdra saw it too, for she turned to me after a little while and asked blandly "was your mother of an elvish line?"

"Partly," I explained. "Many believe that our royal line descends from a man and a she-elf. Both my mother and father were distant products of this line,"

The Shieldmaiden reached up to point to a symbol high in the upper corner of a particular portrait.

"This is a tengwa, a quenya letter. It is the symbol for 'r' –for 'Ressil', I would assume- but its presentation suggests that it instead stands for 'royalty'.

I was not surprised. My mother had always held a strange interest in foreign languages and secret codes. If she had planted some symbol in her paintings to feel better of herself, that it was only one of the many self-aggrandizing and inexplicable things she had done.

I watched as Calahdra surveyed each painting, and sure enough she managed to find a similar symbol in every one.

"We should find our way to the parlor," I pointed out, growing weary of such reminders of my mother.

Calahdra nodded, and together we departed the vestigial chamber of my mother's soul.

We were the first to arrive to luncheon, and so we stepped out onto the balcony. I reveled in the sunlight across my face, and Calahdra seemed quite pleased to simply have the wind pass over her brow. When a particularly strong gust lifted her short locks up into the air, I noticed then what she was.

"You are an elf,"

She nodded once, not bothering to turn towards me at all. For a moment she was quiet, deliberating.

"A quarter of one, yes,"

And it was then that I noticed the way her eyes lingered on the horizon, and the way her knuckles strained tightly over the iron railings of the balcony. From what I had read, elves often longed after the sea –it was the same reason that my people based our unnatural obsession with the ocean on.

"Did you live with the elves?"

"No," she whispered, and her cold eyes grew glassy for a second before she blinked.

Voices grew behind us, and I turned to watch my father, Eomer, and several members of the court enter the parlor. Calahdra and I joined them and made our greetings.

I was inevitably placed at my Eomer's side, and at once I felt the tension grow in thick knots between us. When great pitchers of mead were placed on the table, I filled my glass with as much as it could manage.

"Your people's distilleries must be of good report, then," Eomer said quietly, and I was suddenly filled with such dismay that I felt my cheeks go crimson. That he would make some cheeky remark such as that before properly introducing himself seemed, at the time, unforgivable.

"Our meads are well-crafted, yes," And I took a hearty gulp for good measure.

Around us, conversation grew louder, and I noticed that even Calahdra had joined in on some talk of battles or armor or the like.

"Is your mead of poor quality in Rohan?" I asked, giving him a sidelong glance. I watched his eyes narrow.

"Not at all," and he took a punitive sip as if he doubted my intelligence on the matter.

A few moments passed in dull silence before he spoke up again. "I'd wager that our meads are far better, in fact,"

I turned to him them, narrowing my own eyes. "Are they, now?"

"Certainly," he said, putting his goblet down to pull a flask from his side. He filled two spare goblets with a dose of his own spirits and laid one before me.

"Taste this and tell me that it is not better,"

Cautiously, and never once taking my eyes from his, I raised the second glass to my lips. I sniffed at the contents, swished my glass about once to survey the rivulets about the rim, and tossed the mead in my mouth when at last I tasted it. All of this was in show, but I thought it best to convince him that I had wisdom in this area.

I set my glass down when at last I swallowed and gave it a long look. I turned my eyes back up to his Majesty's. "It has absolutely no complexity, the aroma is far stronger than the mead actually tastes, and the aftertaste carries with it some trace of vinegar, or…urine,"

"Really," Eomer said slowly, his brow furrowing.

"In truth," I parried, blotting my lips against a napkin.

I refused to take my eyes from his, and I watched as the corner of his mouth, ever so slowly, began to quiver. And though he was clearly fighting hard to not smile, every once or a while his eyes would spark with amusement.

I felt a similar hilarity grow within myself, but my resolve to keep par with my original detest of him won out in the end. I turned away from him and stared blankly at the wall across the way.

"You are a fine piece of work," I heard him grumble, and before I could come up with some retort, our dinner was carried out.

I feasted in complete silence, for such had been the will of my father. Old-fashioned and determined to uphold tradition within his own palace, my father had made it clear to my mother and then to myself that mealtimes were a time for men to enjoy and women to eat.

Thankfully, Eomer turned to speak with Calahdra, and I caught snippets of their conversation over time.

"Have the men settled?" Eomer inquired. Calahdra must have nodded, for Eomer responded with "good".

"Have you made much progress with Imrahil?" she asked a little while later.

"A good deal. Safe passage along the Ringlo and Blackroot for trade has been assured, and we've agreed to review Belfalas' trade agreements,"

"And what of our dear?" she asked, and at once I managed to gather the true identity of the pet name.

"We have not yet spoken of that," he replied, growing a little quieter.

I grew pink, and moments later a rough hand grazed my own.

"Would you mind walking with me?" Eomer asked, an irresistible innocence sparkling behind his eyes.

Having finished my meal, I could not see how I could possibly refuse. I looked to my father for permission, and having already taken note of the situation, he nodded.

I rose and gathered myself. Eomer presented his arm, and together we exited the parlor.

"Where shall we go?" I asked him, attempting to keep my voice even despite the sudden spike in my heartbeat.

"Wherever would be most pleasing to you," he responded simply, keeping his eyes on the ground.

I studied him for a little while before making up my mind. I steered him to the right and ascended a flight of stairs towards the northwestern tower of the citadel –a place that offered the most spectacular views of the outlying plains and hills of Belfalas.

"Have you lived here all your life?" Eomer asked suddenly, and I noticed then that he had been staring at me.

"I have," I told him. "I was born in this palace. I've never found myself far from the city,"

"Do you like it here?"

I gulped, suddenly reminded of the fact that it didn't matter what my response was; with all likelihood I would be leaving this place quite soon.

"I do. I love the sea,"

"I like it too," he said, "Although, I am more fond of moors and prairielands –but that is to be expected, I assume,"

I nodded. And slowly, I began to warm to him. At first, the invidious part of my soul that rebelled against him seemed to have won out. But as the minutes passed by, silent and gentle except for the sound of our feet brushing against the stone floors, I found that he was not so aversive, not quite as barbaric as I had first assumed.

Slowly, however, the silence grew awkward, and I searched for small talk.

"What...what it Rohan like?" I asked, and as he turned to answer I continued, babbling in the nervous manner I had come to master; "You see, I've read of it in tomes and stared at it in maps, but I truly cannot picture such a place in my head. A land of horses is foreign to me… I've never even ridden a horse. I couldn't imagine so many. I imagine all of your people must be agrarians, then, to harbor so many horses in one country…,"

"Woah, my lady," he said, stopping with a pat to my arm. I noticed that he was suppressing a laugh, and I grew very, very red.

"Do you go on so quite often?" he asked. "I couldn't imagine it; I'd grow such a headache,"

I was hurt, first, and then I grew angry. Like any woman, I turned his words over in my mind far too quickly and analyzed them far too much.

"I'm to be your wife," I stated, halting at once and tearing my arm from his. "You'd best imagine it, Eomer-King, because soon I'll be your wife,"

I made to storm off, but an iron grip caught me around the forearm. "Do not lecturing me on the subtleties of our impending marriage. I am not marrying for your sake, my lady. I marry for my people, and I'm marrying you for the sake of Belfalas and Rohan both,"

And there it was, laid out in the plainest of colors. We were both nothing more than symbols, to be bound together despite even the strongest of personal reservations.

I melted and turned from him, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. "I know," I whispered, and, once again, I ran away.

I ended up on the balcony of the citadel anyways, and for a long time I sat in the sun. Thoughts raced between my ears like the icy gales of the nights before. For a while, I was unbothered.

"You've made this a nasty habit,"

I jumped a little, and turned towards my brother's voice. "Have I? Is father mad?"

"I'd doubt it. I just saw Eomer wandering about the gardens and father's still imbibing with his council,"

"How do you know this?"

Amrothos gave me an arcane smile as he settled beside me. "I just passed the good King Eomer and gave him my best wishes in pursuing the un-pursuable. He seemed to take that a little personally,"

I looked away, biting back a remark that would not have been smiled upon even in my brother's company. He put his hand on my arm. When I gave no response, he draped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me tight.

"I'm lying, dear. I gave him my best wishes in wooing the heart of my sister, who –like any young woman- would probably struggle with the concept of leaving behind all that she loves to live with a stranger in a strange land,"

I nodded once, gluing my watery eyes to the silhouette of a far-off tree.

"Would you like to know what he said?"

I nodded again.

"He told me 'Unless I can win her over, I'm not sure that I'd ever be able to forgive myself for breaking her heart so, even if I thought that she'd one day come to admire me,"

I blinked, a little stunned. "Really?' I asked, turning to look up at him.

"No. No, he told me that you were an 'insufferable brat who deserved her father's beatings',"

"That's not funny, 'Rothos,"

But we were both laughing. When our chuckles subsided, he pulled me just a little closer and pressed a kiss to the crown of my head.

"He will come to love you, Lothiriel. It may take him years like it did me," –I elbowed him a little sharply at this point- "aRrgh!... But he will come to care for and cherish you,"

As the sun and the shadows of the clouds rolled over us, peace radiating down from a vibrant sky, I'd like to think that I had begun to believe him.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

Léoma: Old English for 'Bright'.  
Ressil: Sind. for 'Rain'.


	5. Chapter 4: Expected

Night falls too quickly. Calahdra stands in her nightclothes, listening acutely for sounds of thunder, signs of some impending storm. But from the looks of things, tonight is to be a clear night.

She cannot stand this. She cannot sleep in silence anymore, for her own thoughts echo in her ears for hours. It was why, upon returning to Meduseld, she moved her quarters as close as possible to the kitchen, which was always ablaze with some noise.

She goes to Eomer's quarters, conveniently across the hall from her own. This serves two purposes for which Calahdra is grateful: 1- she can continue to guard Eomer and 2- Eldric would not dare come anywhere near her quarters when they are this far within the palace. The other riders have been stationed in barracks in the parade grounds, far from the corridors nested within Dol Amroth.

Calahdra doesn't bother to knock; after years in Eomer's presence, neither of them knows true privacy anymore.

Eomer is tending to his fireplace and waves his hand at her over his shoulder. She settles into an armchair and reaches for a nearby book. As she browses its contents, she finds herself growing drowsy.

Her King turns and watches her –and though she can feel his clear eyes on her skin, she does not acknowledge him.

"Have you heard from Legolas?"

Calahdra fights her every instinct to run from the name and manages to pull reason into her voice as she speaks. "I have,"

"And what have you heard?"

She looks up at him, noticing only now that he is shirtless. Friendship has done this to her; no longer does she view him as a creature of the opposite gender. He is merely Eomer, her friend and her King.

"His father is sailing soon,"

Eomer nods at this, for he has expected such tidings for a while. Many Elvish folk have left this world.

"And Legolas is to marry,"

The King blinks once, bewildered by the apathy he hears now from his Shieldmaiden's voice. Though the statement is unsurprising, Eomer cannot stomach Calahdra's reaction –or lack thereof.

"Have you known this very long?"

Calahdra shifts, afraid that her heart may burst into flames at any moment. With a breath, though, she manages to cool herself. _'Show no fear,'_ she tells herself. _'Show no weakness,'_

"A week, only. But I have predicted this for a long while,"

Eomer understands her catatonia now. She had sunk deeper and deeper into melancholy with every passing month; but because he feared her more than he loved her, Eomer had said nothing. Such was the way of their friendship.

"Who is to be his bride?" he asks quietly.

"She has not yet been chosen for him," she says, and suddenly the life drains from her eyes.

Eomer crosses to her and kneels. "You could go to him, Calahdra. Ask it of me, and I will let you. Go now and find him,"

But she shakes her head just a little, as if injured. "His path has been chosen for him, Eomer. Only a she-elf could be his bride," She turns to him with a sardonic smile on her twisted lips. "They must preserve the quality of the elven-line,"

Eomer can see past the bravado, though, and he takes her hands in his. Their fingers, calloused and bruised, entangle; with no coaxing at all, Calahdra begins to weep.

Eomer holds her for hours, folding her up into his body. He had held her once before when word that her father had died reached Meduseld. The action had been astoundingly natural then; it was the same way now.

When Calahdra at last falls into sleep, Eomer lays her on his bed and tucks a duvet around her. He returns to the sitting room to wait out the night, churning over the romantic-malpractices of his own day.

It is then, when the night turns over into the darkest prologues of morning, that the storm breaks over Dol Amroth.


	6. Chapter 5: Deluge

A/N: Woah. It's been a while. But here I am, and I have at least two more chapters in the works. Thanks for sticking with me; and for new readers, you're the best!

* * *

At noon the following day, having completed my studies, my father had his guards accompany me to the docks. It was on the fourth day of every new month that I paid alms to the sea as par my duties as Dol Amroth's Eldest daughter. It was a cool, misty day, painted yet with winter's last biting frosts. I was dressed in a cumbersome mass of lavender silk and silver lace, and a single pearl drop hung between my eyes from a thick, golden chain.

I stood upon the royal docks and sang an ancient lay, surrounded by the devout and the royal guards. The Adunaîc verses poured from my painted lips, and the sea returned the call with gentle licks of sea spray and the occasional crash of a breaking wave. When my song reached its end, I tossed a vile of sacred ashes into the opalescent brine. I was soon whisked away by the legion of guards, and pressed towards the citadel with extreme haste. My father often told me that the city was not safe, especially since many city folk had turned from the ancient religion when the War had torn their loved ones from them. Though my father had little care himself for the routine praises to the Elvish gods, it had been my mother's desire -when lucid- to carry out the deeds if only so as to preserve the city's history and heritage.

I took luncheon with my father before I was allowed to change out of my ceremonial robes, and the process of eating with a solid five pounds of lace work hanging from my wrists had me huffing and puffing throughout the experience. But my father took no note; he was engaged in a deep pile of tomes that needed signing. When at last I was excused, I half-ran to my rooms and had my maid pull away my many layers of clothing. I laid then on a settee in our communal dressing room. In nothing but my sheer day shift and a pair of wool socks, I found myself quickly falling into a much needed nap.

I dreamt of white crows sitting on the highest of the palace's parapets, calling out as my mother followed me in ghost form about our gardens. There were no words in my dream, and my dream-form seemed to be entirely ignorant of my mother. I merely watched from the perspective of the crows, warm under a dull autumn sun.

I awoke a short time later when a blanket drifted down over me, and I sat up warily. At the far edge of the velvet settee was the foreign King, looking sheepish and a little morose.

"My lord," I started, shocked by his forwardness. "I am not dressed. You should not be here, seeing me like this,"

"It does not bother me," he said, though he kept his eyes down and away. "I have seen women's forms before. I will not dishonor you, nor my own name. But I wish to speak with you without fear of being overheard, and so I have sought you out,"

Though still flustered, I saw the truth in his deep eyes. I sat up a little straighter, and let the blanket I was hiding away in fall down to my shoulders.

Eomer nodded, and looked up at me. "I fear I offended you yesterday, and I apologize for it. I have a quick temper, and I have little patience for courtly pleasantries or guarded speech. I now know that you learned only of my suit a day before my arrival; it is unfair, then, that I have known of this arrangement for months now. So I understand why this is difficult for you, and I will not repeat the mistake of skipping over the respect I must first pay you,"

"You have known for months?"I asked, bewildered and a little sore.

"I have. And I have played over in my mind what it would be like to meet you, and to become better acquainted with you. But the truth is that it was wrong of my to ever guess at your temperament or your personality. And that, I guess, is where I went wrong,"

I was suddenly impressed, and warmed by his ability to speak with such candor. Clearly, he was an intelligent and an honest man. Yet, I could not easily move past the inequity in our situations. Flummoxed, I stood, forgetting the thin blanket entirely. I moved to the nearest window, and took note of the thunderstorm brewing outside.

"I had only a night," I murmured, pressing my palm to the misty glass.

Eomer neared me, and kept a arms length from me as he spoke.

"I am no fool, my lady. I know that you have grown all your life with the knowledge that any marriage you entered into would not likely be one of your own choosing. But I can understand a little better your shock, then. It is not a common thing to be made aware of your own fate within a day,"

I smiled sadly and nodded, turning to see him studying me from where he stood. Silently, our eyes met and a slow grin grew on his face.

"May I take you riding tomorrow, my lady?"

I burst into violent laughter, arching my back against the window panes as I sobbed with hysteria.

"I know nothing of riding," I told him as I caught my breath. "It is as if you seek to torture me further,"

Eomer, who had been standing straight and rigid with confusion, now furrowed his brow. "That's a pity," he told me, turning to stare out the window nearest him. With a mournful sigh, he murmured "All hope at marriage is lost,"

At first, I thought him serious. But his mouth twitched after a moment, and I giggled at his mock seriousness. Bare-legged and hair flayed across my back, I came to him and set my hand in his. When he turned to me, I reached a palm up to his jaw, and cradled his worn face in mine. His lips parted for a moment, and with sparkling eyes, he placed his free hand on my shoulder, gently tracing it with his thumb.

I realized then that I had never been touched by a man this way before, and after a moment more of memorizing his tan skin and gently wrinkled eyes, I turned away.

"You must teach me to ride," I said, accepting now the feeling of inevitablity growing in my heart. "The people of Rohan mustn't think me a fool,"

Eomer folded his arms and rocked back on his heels, a sudden smile gracing every inch of his face.

"The people of Rohan will think you a goddess, my lady,"

I turned to him, biting my own lip to conceal another smile. "My name is Lothiriel, King Eomer. Use it,"

And there I took my leave, sweeping back to my quarters as a deluge of feeling and realizations threatened to escape the confines of my heart.


End file.
